


A Song That I Know

by charcoalsuns



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, One (For a Certain Value of One) Extrapolated Canon of Many, Reunions, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalsuns/pseuds/charcoalsuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which touches of luck, coincidence, and an omnipresent, inaudibly ringing bell help some things come full circle in the end. </p>
<p>(And sometimes, a full circle is not an end at all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song That I Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themorninglark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



> This is a summer hols treat for themorninglark, who I admire so much as a writer and person, and who I am always heartened to see enjoying all kinds of rarepairs to no end. (IkeDai are one of those we have in common ^^)
> 
> The stylistic element throughout this fic is not mine in the slightest -- bells belong to David Ives, as written in his play "Sure Thing," which is fantastic and hilarious and was introduced to me by [this reminiscently brilliant Arthur/Merlin fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/251167), about which I have cried real tears through those of laughter (, and which is much closer in tone to the original work than what I have taken it to here).
> 
> The title and approximately 98% of one line are from Elbow's "The Bones of You." 
> 
> I had a good time writing this! I hope you enjoy it, and much due celebratory confetti to you and everyone else for taking part in Hols!

There’s a box of tofu on the top shelf of his refrigerator, cut open along the dotted line and half-emptied of its insides. A bunch of spring onions, rinsed clean three days ago, half-used. 

The soup pot’s where he left it this morning, hanging to dry above his narrow countertop, and as Daichi presses his knuckles into the unlined pockets of his thickest jacket, he tries to remember what date is printed on his box of _akamiso_. 

It wouldn’t be until the new year, at least, he’s sure, but the exact day and month escape him, and he is a few minutes away from falling asleep where he stands. 

Coffee, then, when he returns to his student apartment. 

Another coffee, perhaps with no milk this time, and a pot of instant ramen he could make asleep at his stove.

 

(A bell rings softly.)

 

There’s a box of tofu on the top shelf of his refrigerator, cut open along the dotted line and half-emptied of its insides. A bunch of spring onions, rinsed clean three days ago, half-used. 

The soup pot’s dry by now, hanging where he left it above his narrow countertop, and as Daichi shoves his hands deeper into the unlined pockets of his thickest jacket, he tries to remember if he still has any pork left in his freezer to add to his dinner of miso ramen. 

When his eyes open on the tail end of another yawn, Daichi looks out across the tracks. He imagines, for a moment, first snowflakes falling gently from the heavy, worn-out sky. 

He wouldn’t be able to see them from his kitchen-workspace-living room window, anyway.

 

(A bell rings softly.)

 

There’s an open box of tofu in his refrigerator, half-emptied of its insides, and a bunch of spring onions, rinsed clean and half-used. 

Daichi pushes his hands deeper into the unlined pockets of his thickest jacket. He thinks of the soup pot hanging, waiting, above his narrow countertop, of the packages of instant ramen stacked in the corner cabinet. He tries to remember if there’s any pork still left in his freezer. 

Above the unoccupied tracks, the sky is heavy and tired, grey as an illness and looking on the verge of giving into collapse. Daichi blinks away the faint tears from another yawn, and for a moment, watches first snowflakes falling gently in defeat. He wonders if he’s imagining them. 

When his train slides into place before the covered platform, he is halfway up the stairs, schoolbag shifting like a couch cushion against his back, routine and more than a little lumpy, a shield doing nothing to block the wind intruding from the street. On the other side of the handrail, heels and leather soles clatter downward in an unofficiated race. Fifteen seconds after its scheduled departure time, the train doors hiss shut, the last part-time sprinters safely behind, looking for seats in their cars. 

There’s an _oden_ stall two blocks away from the station. It is closer than another stall five blocks away, stands next to a setup of folding tables and stools, and adds sliced _shiitake_ mushrooms to its broth. 

His back to the rushing street, Daichi tries not to burn his tongue on the soaked and steaming contents of his bowl. He presses his knees together under the wooden table, its rough, crooked grain glowing slightly under the portable orange lights, a communal family plaque far from the houses of Miyagi.

 

(A bell.)

 

There’s an _oden_ stall only two blocks away from the station, where the cooks add sliced _shiitake_ mushrooms to their broth. Daichi finds a seat at one of the folding tables, takes a pair of chopsticks from the canister at its center, and tries not to burn his tongue on the steaming pieces of daikon in his bowl. 

His egg, soaked in one of the lighter soups he’s had here, including his own, is slightly more cooked than he used to get, at a restaurant in town that checked patron IDs and stood firm upon their dates of birth. It’s hardly something to compare, but on this Tuesday evening, mere days from several important exams and an arm’s length from the crowded, hurried street at his side, he is both focused and cluttered enough to rewrite any useless manner of information to his memory. 

At least, he thinks, smiling ruefully to himself, he doesn’t have to wash the dishes tonight. 

An arm’s length away, someone pauses mid-walk, plastic _combini_ bag swinging to a stop at their knees. A dropped receipt, or a surprise over the phone, Daichi figures, idle, and doesn’t look up from his borrowed bowl and disposable napkins. 

A few moments later, they start walking again, and exit through Daichi’s periphery.

 

(Bell.)

 

At least, he thinks, with a rueful smile to himself, he doesn’t have to wash his dishes tonight. 

An arm’s length away, someone pauses on their way down the street. Daichi spares them only that momentary thought, until their resumed steps bring them to the empty side of his table. 

When he looks up, it’s four years ago, and three hundred sixty-six kilometers away. 

“…Ikejiri?”

It is.

“Hi, Sawamura. It’s been a while,” he says, with a smile that stretches warm the freckles on his cheeks and makes Daichi suddenly very aware of the hot soup in his stomach. 

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says. Then, he wants to kick himself, and he does. 

The table shakes slightly when his ankle jerks, taking his leg with it. Ikejiri stays where he is, eyes shifting to the chopsticks rattling in their canister as Daichi watches reflected orange light tremble. Their incorporeal earthquake settles, and they look back across the stillness. 

“Really?” Ikejiri asks him, familiar crinkles reaching out toward his temples. “I think I’ve changed a little.” 

Daichi can only grin, unvoiced laughter sparkling in his chest like soda he hasn’t yet tasted. “I’d like to find out, if you’d join me.” 

“Ah…” The plastic of Ikejiri’s _combini_ bag rustles as he places it on the table. “I’d like to. I’ll just sit on this side, so they won’t see me bringing in outside food.” 

“I’ll sit up a bit,” says Daichi, though his back is already straight. “Block their view.”

“You always did have broad shoulders,” says Ikejiri. 

The chopsticks clack. 

“Maybe I’m the one who hasn’t changed, then.” Daichi fishes out another piece of daikon and bites into it with his side teeth. Its salty-sweetness unfolds across his tongue, warmer than before. He glances over in curiosity. “Hm. Salmon?” 

Ikejiri holds his wrapped _onigiri_ up to his own eye level, like he’d forgotten what kind he bought. “Yeah,” he says, smile fading a little. “I guess you had a point, huh.”

 

(Bell.)

 

“Maybe I’m the one who hasn’t changed, then,” Daichi says, taking up one of the last pieces from his soup bowl. It feels warmer on his tongue, more savory than before. 

Ikejiri has a wrapped _onigiri_ in his palm, the first finger of his other hand picking at the tape that holds the cellophane together. The print on its label is unclear from where Daichi sits, but he wonders—

“Is that—?”

“Salmon,” Ikejiri nods, a dip of his head in the world’s most casual toast, his smile falling just slightly, gently, a glass half-full of snow. “Huh. I guess you had a point.” 

“Well,” says Daichi. “What are you doing in Tokyo?” 

Mid-bite, Ikejiri pauses. Once he’s swallowed, he glances over, a search in his eyes like the last time they saw each other. “Working,” he says, and despite the years, Daichi thinks he can understand the bruises on his skin – their forearms are shielded against the cold, but those sore testaments remain, to a different, tired effect. 

A change, in both of them. 

“I’m a computer programmer,” Ikejiri tells him. “I was lucky to get this position, really, without a Bachelor’s degree. One of my aunts is a manager for the company, a different department, but she took notice when there was an unexpected opening in a lower office, and let me know where I could find the information for it.” 

He looks the smallest bit sheepish, or the humblest bit grateful, and there’s a surety to his voice as he talks with Daichi now, like this present _company_ is as much a part of his routine as a mug or two of morning coffee, black, some milk. Like it would take much more than just a few words from another to affect him. 

“That’s great,” Daichi says. "And… It brought you here.”

 

(Bell.)

 

“That’s great,” Daichi says. “Though your hours seem as exhausting as mine.”

 

(Bell.)

 

“That’s great,” Daichi says. “How long have you been in the city?”

Ikejiri sets down his can of green tea. Wisps of steam, now unimpeded, rise toward the fabric menus above their table. “Two years in March,” he says. He smooths out a small receipt next to the can before sticking it into his takeaway bag. His smile is a wry, humorless thing, and lingers like parquet burn on the _onigiri_ in his hand. 

Two timelines at once, Daichi wonders how they’ve missed each other for so long. 

“So… Did you come right after you graduated from Karasuno?” 

Daichi nods. “Yeah. I’m in my last semester now, and then I’ll be looking for one business firm or another to enter.” 

“Any family in Tokyo?” asks Ikejiri, and after a startled pause, together, reconsidering, they laugh. Under the portable lights, their bruises begin to disappear. 

“No,” Daichi says, a chuckle swinging its feet from the edge of his throat. “Some cousins in Europe, I guess, but everyone else is back in Miyagi.”

“Everyone?”

“Oh… No, I meant my relatives,” Daichi says. “Not too many friends are living in Miyagi now, last I spoke with them. Michimiya, though – do you remember her? – she’s in Sendai, student teaching at a middle school.” 

Ikejiri’s expression, if possible, softens even more at this. “I remember her. Teaching, huh? It suits her, I want to say, but, well, you know.” 

Daichi does. Bowl clean, he sets his chopsticks down across the rim. “She’s changed as little as we have,” he says, “which. You know.” 

“Mm,” Ikejiri says. His freckles shift when he smiles, and _there,_ across the crinkle on the bridge of his nose, upon the space between his cheekbone and dimple, is the sole dandelion gone to seed that Daichi had never been able to resist. _Is he smiling easier now?_ he wonders. It isn’t that he can’t remember what simple joy looked like, on Ikejiri’s mild features, but they’d been with each other only through volleyball, then, and there was less joy in endurance, in loss. 

Daichi thinks of Izumitate, a lifetime ago, it seems. The gymnasium there, then large enough to be divided for use by two entire clubs, would seem so small now, if he were to go back. Its hallways and supply cubbies labeled with bright markers, the crumbling edges of the road to a family restaurant in town – he’d walked with Ikejiri for post-practice meat buns as often as their self-replenishing pockets could take, and he’d continued walking, when they no longer practiced together. 

(There’s a package of precooked meat buns in his freezer, next to a container of leftover _chashu_. Ready to eat in four or eleven minutes, depending on whether he microwaves or steams them. He has a few for breakfast, sometimes, so he doesn’t run late for class or for a shift at the campus information desk.) 

He isn’t sure, just yet, what he can do to bring that fleeting dandelion cloud to their present here, from a scattering of moments past, between runs and drills and blank phone contacts. But he wants to let a new one grow, a tribute or a grace, between an _onigiri_ wrapper and an empty bowl, on a table as worn as the weathered sign beside his parents’ front gate. 

“Do you go back often?” Daichi asks. “To Miyagi.” 

Ikejiri’s can makes a quiet sound against their table, the hollow kind that means it’s been drained of its last drops, and he takes a paper napkin from the holder between them. “On some public holidays,” he says. “Some Sundays, and for my mom’s birthday. Aside from her… there’s not much for me to go back to.” 

The cloud is a breath from gone, like snow turned to rain. But— 

“I do like it here,” adds Ikejiri. “Exhausting days and all. How about you?”

“On weekends, if I’m not working the information desk or studying.” Daichi remembers the last time he took the _shinkansen_ back to Sendai, and considers it a sign of continued roots; different, is all, from Ikejiri’s. “I go to see my parents, and then, if there’s enough of us available, I play a few matches with the Neighborhood Association.” 

“Volleyball?” Ikejiri asks.

 

(Bell.)

 

“Volleyball?” Ikejiri asks. Daichi wishes he could tell how wistful, how amused, his voice was meant to sound. 

“Mm,” he says, “I played with one of the intramural teams for three years, but I had to stop last semester. Too much time. I just have these weekends, now.”

Ikejiri presses his lips together, as if he’s swallowing a laugh. “That’d be more than enough, now, if it were me. But I’m not you, Sawamura, and I stopped after the last Inter-High preliminaries.” He looks at Daichi, then, an old spark in his eyes. A challenge, like a starting line drawn in sand, like a row of unopened beer cans on an _izakaya_ table. “I’ll tell you what, though. If I played against you tonight…” 

Daichi grins and leans back in his seat; folds his arms, clumsily, in his thick jacket. “Yeah?”

“I’d lose,” Ikejiri says, and his laugh slips free. 

Across the sidewalk, not ten steps from the covered tables, snowflakes begin to stick to the top of an abandoned cardboard box. His attention drawn much closer, Daichi is the warmest he’s been all day. 

And then, after they have disposed of their respective napkins in Ikejiri’s plastic bag, both wordless, forbearing, in their acknowledgment of the time – he asks:

“Do you miss it?” 

Ikejiri doesn’t blink. “No,” he says, a curve like a fingertip to dust on his lips. “I used to, when I’d walk to the bus stop to get to vocational school, and there’d be kids playing on the grass at the park. Or when I’d flip through TV channels and catch a set from a national tournament somewhere.” He shrugs, exhaling with the fall of his shoulders. “Not anymore, though.” 

Daichi feels his own memories stir in answer. A copy of a team photograph, creased from the papers and used textbooks piled on top of it; a jersey beneath a stack of workout clothes, faded black and muted orange, its captain’s mark a line he has already stepped across. 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” he says, listening to the squeak of a neighboring chair as someone stands, nodding a hurried _thank you_ to the cooks. The wheels under their briefcase thud against the sidewalk as they leave. “But there are times now, when I’m just as happy as I was then.” 

“Yeah.” Ikejiri doesn’t look away.

Until he does, reaching a hand into his coat pocket. “You know,” he says as he takes out his phone. “Maybe we should have done this years ago, but… Here, Sawamura. Put in your number, and I’ll send you mine. I— I’d like to see you again.” 

“Of course,” says Daichi. “So would I.” He reaches over, his elbow pausing next to the canister of chopsticks. His surprise dissipates in his chest as he types, and when he places the phone back in Ikejiri’s open palm, something along the edges of it sparks into anticipation, instead. He thinks of the container of _akamiso_ in his refrigerator, doesn’t try to calculate how much fuller it is now. 

As Daichi’s phone vibrates in his pants pocket, Ikejiri gets to his feet. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” he says, soft, not quite hesitating. 

Daichi shakes his head with a small, rueful grin, standing up, too. “No,” he says, “I should go as well. Early night for an early day, right?” 

“Exactly,” says Ikejiri, and he waits a few steps away while Daichi gives his bowl and his thanks to the stall owners. 

When Daichi joins him, beside a notice-papered utility pole to one side of the rushing street, he holds out a hand. 

“It was really good to see you,” he says, and Daichi clasps his hand in his own.

 

(A bell rings impatiently.)

 

“It was really good to see you,” he says, and Daichi reaches, glances up to check. He takes Ikejiri by the shoulders, rain-dotted wool brushing rough against his fingers. When he steps closer, Ikejiri’s unshaken hand comes to rest on his waist, steady and temporary as their forearms, settling across each other’s invulnerable spines. 

“It was.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_From: (unknown number)_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_until next time, Sawamura_

  


As he walks back to the station, Daichi looks up at the heavy, tired sky, and lets the first snowflakes melt on his smile. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ~~that paragraph after the last bell was the most difficult thing ever for me to write~~
> 
> o_o;;
> 
> ([ikejiri's salmon onigiri](http://larkwords.tumblr.com/post/139571953763/haikyuu-ikedai-ikejiri-looking-back))


End file.
